David Nicholls - One Day

Heartened, he licks his lips, and checks once more for onlookers. ‗I love you, Emma Morley.‘

‗No you don‘t,‘ she sighs. ‗Not real y.‘

He tilts his chin down, as if peering at her over imaginary glasses. ‗I think that‘s for me to decide, don‘t you?‘ She hates that headmasterly look and tone of voice. She wants to kick him in the shins.

‗You had better go,‘ she says.

‗I‘l miss you, Em—‘

‗Have a nice holiday, if we don‘t talk—‘

‗You‘ve no idea how much I‘l miss you—‘

‗Corsica, lovely—‘

‗Every day—‘

‗See you then, bye—‘

‗Here . . .‘ Raising his briefcase, using it a shield, he kisses her. Very discreet, she thinks, standing impassively.

He opens the car door and steps in. A navy blue Sierra, a proper headmaster‘s car, its glove compartment packed with Ordnance Survey maps. ‗Stil can‘t believe they cal me Monkey Boy . . .‘ he mumbles, shaking his head.

She stands for a moment in the empty car park and watches him drive off. Thirty years old, barely in love with a married man, but at least there are no kids involved.

Twenty minutes later, she stands beneath the window of the long, low red-brick building that contains her flat, and notices a light on in the living room. Ian is back.

She contemplates walking off and hiding in the pub, or perhaps going round to see friends for the evening, but she knows that Ian wil just sit in that armchair with the light off and wait, like an assassin. She takes a deep breath, and looks for her keys.

The flat seems much bigger since Ian moved out.

Stripped of the video box-sets, the chargers and adapters and cables, the vinyl in gatefold sleeves, it feels as if it has been recently burgled, and once again Emma

is reminded of how little she has to show for the last eight years. She can hear a rustling from the bedroom. She puts down her bag and walks quietly towards the door.

The contents of the chest of drawers are scattered on the floor: letters, bank statements, torn paper wal ets of photographs and negatives. She stands silent and unobserved in the doorway and watches Ian for a moment, snorting with the effort of reaching deep into the back of the drawer. He wears unlaced trainers, track-suit bottoms, an un-ironed shirt. It‘s an outfit that has been careful y put together to suggest maximum emotional disarray. He is dressed to upset.

‗What are you doing, Ian?‘

He is startled, but only for a moment, after which he glares back indignantly, a self-righteous burglar. ‗You‘re home late,‘ he says, accusingly.

‗What‘s that got to do with you?‘

‗Just curious as to your whereabouts, that‘s al .‘

‗I had rehearsals. Ian, I thought we agreed you can‘t just drop in like this.‘

‗Why, got someone with you, have you?‘

‗Ian, I am so not in the mood for this . . .‘ She puts down her bag, takes off her coat. ‗If you‘re looking for a diary or something, you‘re wasting your time. I haven‘t kept a diary for years . . .‘

‗As a matter of fact I‘m just getting my stuff. It is my stuff, you know, I do own it.‘

‗You‘ve got al your stuff.‘

‗My passport. I don‘t have my passport!‘

‗Wel I can tel you right now, it‘s not in my underwear drawer.‘ He is improvising of course. She knows that he has his passport, he just wanted to poke through her belongings and show her that he‘s not okay. ‗Why do you need your passport? Are you going somewhere? Emigrating maybe?‘

‗Oh you‘d love that, wouldn‘t you?‘ he sneers.

‗Wel I wouldn‘t mind, ‘ she says, stepping over the mess and sitting on the bed.

He adopts a gumshoe voice. ‗Wel , tough shit, sweetheart, ‘cause I ain‘t going nowhere.‘ As a jilted lover, Ian has found a commitment and aggression that he

never possessed as a stand-up comedian, and he is certainly putting on quite a show tonight. ‗Couldn‘t afford to anyway.‘

She feels like heckling him. ‗I take it you‘re not doing a lot of stand-up comedy at the moment, then, Ian?‘

‗What do you think, sweetheart?‘ he says, putting his arms out to the side, indicating the stubble, the unwashed hair, the sal ow skin; his look-what-you‘ve- done-to-me look.

Ian is making a spectacle of his self-pity, a one-man-show of loneliness and rejection that he‘s been working up for the last six months and, tonight at least,

Emma has no time for it.

‗Where‘s this ―sweetheart‖ thing come from, Ian? I‘m not sure if I like it.‘

He returns to his search and mumbles something into the drawer, ‗fuck off, Em‘ perhaps. Is he drunk, she wonders? On the dressing table, there‘s an open can of strong cheap lager. Drunk – now there’s a good idea. At that moment, Emma decides to set out to get drunk as soon as possible. Why not? It seems to work for everyone else.

Excited by the project, she walks to the kitchen to make a start.

He fol ows her through. ‗So, where were you then?‘

‗I told you. At school, rehearsing.‘

‗What were you rehearsing?‘

‗ Bugsy Malone. It‘s a lot of laughs. Why, you want tickets?‘

‗No thanks.‘

‗There‘s splurge guns.‘

‗I reckon you‘ve been with someone.‘

‗Oh, please – here we go again.‘ She opens the fridge.

There‘s half a bottle of wine, but this is one of those times when only spirits wil do. ‗Ian, what is this obsession with me being with someone? Why can‘t it just be that you and me weren‘t right for each other?‘ With a hard yank, she cracks the seal of the frosted-up freezer compartment. Ice scatters on the floor.

‗But we are right for each other!‘

‗Wel fine then, if you say so, let‘s get back together!‘

Behind some ancient minced beef crispy pancakes, there is a bottle of vodka.

‗Yes!‘ She slides the crispy pancakes to Ian. ‗Here – these are yours. I‘m granting you custody.‘

Slamming the fridge, she reaches for a glass. ‗And anyway, what if I was with someone, Ian? So what? We broke up, remember?‘

‗Rings a bel , rings a bel . So who is he then?‘

She‘s pouring the vodka, two inches. ‗Who‘s who?‘

‗Your new boyfriend? Go on, just tel me, I won‘t mind,‘

he sneers. ‗We‘re stil friends after al .‘

Emma gulps from her glass then stoops for a moment, elbows on the counter top, the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes as she feels the icy liquid slide down her throat. A moment passes.

‗It‘s Mr Godalming. The headmaster. We‘ve been having this affair on and off for the past nine months, but I think it‘s mainly been about the sex. To be honest, the whole thing‘s a bit degrading for both of us. Makes me a bit ashamed. Bit sad. Stil , like I keep saying, at least there are no kids involved! There you go—‘ She speaks into her glass. ‗Now you know.‘

The room is silent. Eventual y . . .

‗You‘re kidding me.‘

‗Look out the window, have a look, see for yourself. He‘s waiting in the car. Navy blue Sierra . . .‘

He sniffs, incredulous. ‗It‘s not fucking funny, Emma.‘

Emma places her empty glass on the counter and exhales slowly. ‗No, I know it‘s not. In no way could the situation be described as funny.‘ She turns and faces him.

‗I‘ve told you, Ian, I‘m not seeing anyone. I‘m not in love with anyone and I don‘t want to be. I just want to be left alone . . .‘

‗I‘ve got a theory!‘ he says, proudly.

‗What theory?‘

‗I know who it is.‘

She sighs. ‗Who is it then, Sherlock?‘

‗ Dexter! ‘ he says, triumphantly.

‗Oh for Christ‘s sake—‘ She drains the glass.

‗I‘m right, aren‘t I?‘

She laughs bitterly. ‗God, I wish—‘

‗What does that mean?‘

‗Nothing. Ian, as you wel know, I haven‘t spoken to Dexter for months—‘

‗Or so you say!‘

‗You‘re being ridiculous, Ian. What, you think we‘ve been having this secret love affair behind everyone‘s back?‘

‗That‘s what the evidence seems to suggest.‘

‗Evidence? What evidence?‘

And for the first time, Ian looks a little sheepish. ‗Your notebooks.‘

A moment, then she puts her glass out of reach so that she won‘t be tempted to throw it. ‗You‘ve been reading my notebooks?‘

‗I‘ve glanced. Once or twice. Over the years.‘

‗You bastard—‘

‗The little bits of poetry, those magical ten days in Greece, al that yearning, al that desire—‘

‗How dare you! How dare you go behind my back like that!‘

‗You left them lying round! What do you expect!‘

‗I expected some trust and I expected you to have some dignity—‘

‗And anyway I didn‘t need to read them, it was so bloody obvious, the two of you—‘

‗—but I have limited reserves of sympathy, Ian! Months of you moaning and moping and whining and hanging round like a kicked dog. Wel if you ever turn

up out of the blue like this and start going through my drawers, I swear I wil cal the fucking police—‘

‗Go on then! Go on, cal them!‘ and he steps towards her, his arms out to the side fil ing the little room. ‗It‘s my flat too, remember?‘

‗Is it? How come? You never paid the mortgage! I did that! You never did anything, just lay around feeling sorry for yourself—‘

‗That‘s not true!‘

‗And whatever money you did earn went on stupid videos and take-away—‘

‗I chipped in! When I could—‘

‗Wel it wasn‘t enough! Oh, God I hate this flat, and I hate my life here. I have got to get out of here or I wil go crazy—‘

‗This was our home!‘ he protests, desperately.

‗I was never happy here, Ian. Why couldn‘t you see that? I just got . . . stuck here, we both did. Surely you must know that.‘

He has never seen her like this, or heard her say these things. Shocked, his eyes wide like a panicked child, he stumbles towards her. ‗Calm down!‘ He‘s gripping her arm now. ‗Don‘t say things like that—‘

‗Get away from me, Ian! I mean it, Ian! Just get away!‘

They‘re shouting at each other now and she thinks, Oh God, we‘ve become one of those crazy couples you hear through the wal s at night. Somewhere, someone‘s thinking, should I cal the police? How did it come to this? ‗Get out!‘ she shouts as he desperately tries to put his arms around her.

‗Just give me your keys and get out, I don‘t want to see you anymore—‘

And then just as suddenly, they‘re both crying, slumped on the floor in the narrow hal way of the flat they had bought together with such hope. Ian‘s hand is covering his face, and he‘s struggling to speak between great sobs and gulps of air. ‗I can‘t stand this. Why is this happening to me? This is hel . I‘m in hel , Em!‘

‗I know. I‘m sorry.‘ She wraps her arms around his shoulder.

‗Why can‘t you just love me? Why can‘t you just be in love with me? You were once, weren‘t you? In the beginning.‘

‗Course I was.‘

‗Wel why can‘t you be in love with me again?‘

‗Oh Ian, I can‘t. I‘ve tried, but I can‘t. I‘m sorry. I am so, so sorry.‘

Some time later they lie together on the floor in the same spot, as if they‘ve been washed up there. Her head is on his shoulder, her arm across his chest, taking in the smel of him, the warm, comfortable smel that she had become so used to.

Eventual y, he speaks.

‗I should go.‘

‗I think you should.‘

Keeping his red, swol en face averted, he sits and nods towards the mess of paper, notebooks and photographs on the bedroom floor. ‗You know what makes me sad?‘

‗Go on.‘

‗That there aren‘t more photographs of us. Together I mean. There‘s thousands of you and Dex, hardly any of just you and me. Not recent anyway. It‘s like we just stopped taking them.‘

‗No decent camera,‘ she says weakly, but he chooses to accept it.

‗Sorry for . . . you know, flipping out like that, going through your stuff. Completely unacceptable behaviour.‘

‗S‘alright. Just don‘t do it again.‘

‗Some of the stories are quite good, by the way.‘

‗Thank you. Though they were meant to be private.‘

‗What‘s the point of that? You‘l have to show them to someone someday. Put yourself out there.‘

‗Okay, maybe I wil . One day.‘

‗Not the poems. Don‘t show them the poems, but the stories. They‘re good. You‘re a good writer. You‘re clever.‘

‗Thank you, Ian.‘

His face starts to crumple. ‗It wasn‘t so bad, was it?

Living here with me?‘

‗It was great. I‘m just taking it al out on you, that‘s al .‘

‗Do you want to tel me about it?‘

‗Nothing to tel .‘

‗So.‘

‗So.‘ They smile at each other. He is standing by the door now, one hand on the handle, not quite able to leave.

‗One last thing.‘

‗Go on.‘

‗You‘re not seeing him, are you? I mean Dexter. I‘m just being paranoid.‘

She sighs and shakes her head. ‗Ian, I swear to you on my life. I am not seeing Dexter.‘

‗‘Cos I saw in the papers that he‘d split up with his girlfriend and I thought, you and me breaking up, and him being single again—‘

‗I haven‘t seen Dexter for, God, ages.‘

‗But did anything happen? While you and I were together? Between you and Dexter, behind my back?

Because I can‘t bear the idea—‘

‗Ian – nothing happened between me and Dexter,‘ she says, hoping he‘l leave without asking the next question.

‗But did you want it to?‘

Did she? Yes, sometimes. Often.

‗No. No, I didn‘t. We were just friends, that‘s al .‘

‗Okay. Good.‘ He looks at her, and tries to smile. ‗I miss you so much, Em.‘

‗I know you do.‘

He puts his hand to his stomach. ‗I feel sick with it.‘

‗It‘l pass.‘

‗Wil it? Because I think I might be going a bit mad.‘

‗I know. But I can‘t help you, Ian.‘

‗You could always . . . change your mind.‘

‗I can‘t. I won‘t. I‘m sorry.‘

‗Righto.‘ He shrugs and smiles with his lips tucked in, his Stan Laurel smile. ‗Stil . No harm in asking is there?‘

‗I suppose not.‘

‗I stil think you‘re The Bol ocks, mind.‘

She smiles because he wants her to smile. ‗No, you’re The Bol ocks, Ian.‘

‗Wel I‘m not going to stand here and argue about it!‘ He sighs, unable to keep it up, and reaches for the door. ‗Okay then. Love to Mrs M. See you around.‘

‗See you around.‘

‗Bye.‘

‗Bye.‘

He turns and pul s the door open sharply, kicking the bottom so that it gave the il usion of having hit him in the face. Emma laughs dutiful y, then Ian takes a deep breath and is gone. She sits on the floor for one minute more then stands suddenly, and with a renewed sense of purpose grabs her keys and strides out of the flat.

The sound of a summer evening in E17, shouts and screams echoing off the buildings, a few St George‘s flags stil hanging limply. She strides across the forecourt. Isn‘t she meant to have a close circle of kooky friends to help her get through al this? Shouldn‘t she be sitting on a low baggy sofa with six or seven attractive zany metropolitans, isn‘t that what city life is meant to be like? But either they live two hours away or they‘re with families or boyfriends, and thankful y in the absence of kooky pals, there is the off-licence cal ed, confusingly, depressingly, Booze‘R‘Us.

Intimidating kids are cycling in lazy circles near the entrance, but she‘s fearless now, and marches through their centre, eyes fixed forward. In the shop she picks out the least dubious bottle of wine and joins the queue. The man in front of her has a cobweb tattooed on his face, and while she waits for him to count out enough smal change for two litres of strong cider, she notices the bottle of

champagne locked in a glass cabinet. It‘s dusty, like a relic of some unimaginably luxurious past.

‗I‘l have that champagne too, please,‘ she says. The shopkeeper looks suspicious, but sure enough the money is there, bunched tightly in her hand.

‗Celebration, is it?‘

‗Exactly. Big, big celebration.‘ Then, on a whim. ‗Twenty Marlboro too.‘

With the bottles swinging in a flimsy plastic bag against her hip, she steps out of the shop, cramming the cigarette into her mouth as if it were the antidote to something.

Immediately she hears a voice.

‗Miss Morley?‘

She looks around, guiltily.

‗Miss Morley? Over here!‘

And striding towards her on long legs is Sonya Richards, her protégé, her project. The skinny, bunched-up little girl who played the Artful Dodger has transformed, and Sonya is startling now: tal , hair scraped back, self-assured. Emma has a perfect vision of herself as Sonya must see her; hunched and redeyed, fag in mouth on the threshold of Booze‘R‘Us. A role model, an inspiration. Absurdly, she hides the lit cigarette behind her back.

‗How are you, Miss?‘ Sonya is looking a little il at ease now, eyes flicking from side to side as if regretting coming over.

‗I‘m great! Great? How are you, Sonya?‘

‗Okay, Miss.‘

‗How‘s col ege? Everything going alright?‘

‗Yeah, real y good.‘

‗A-levels next year, right?‘

‗That‘s right.‘ Sonya is glancing furtively at the plastic bag of booze chinking at Emma‘s side, the plume of smoke curling from behind her back.

‗University next year?‘

‗Nottingham, I hope. If I get the grades.‘